The Coffee Man

I want to ask him what his name is. I want to know his story. I want some coffee. I begin to talk about the machine. It is incapable of producing frothed milk. Apparently this ailment is common to the model. I leave my new friend in order to serve someone some syrupy over-priced ice-cream. The total receipt exceeds the pay I receive for three hours work. I wonder how long the coffee man would have to work to buy a core sundae. Perhaps he doesn’t even like core sundaes. I return to find him leaning back against the counter staring at a family while they peruse the garish rows of pick and mix sweets. Sugar and preservatives call out from multifarious guises. He cranes round to tell me that he only comes to look at the women. I can’t think of anything to say. I eventually hazard a cautious laugh. His breath reeks. A fat child is forced to retreat from the till as he is unable to afford the vast amount of mix he has picked. Apparently this ailment is common to the model.